


and i usually don’t fall when i try to stand

by welcometothemeatshack



Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Angst, Blowjobs, Breathplay, Drinking, M/M, Past Dean Ambrose | Jon Moxley/Seth Rollins | Tyler Black, bc seth, implied breathplay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-08
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-08-20 19:36:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16561976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/welcometothemeatshack/pseuds/welcometothemeatshack
Summary: He feels Drew’s eyes on his back all the way to the door, the feeling remaining long after he’s in his own room, two floors down, back to the door as he slides to sit on the floor, eyes closed, chest tight.





	1. now i wish that i could find my clothes

**Author's Note:**

> I’m getting my footing and trying to gain some confidence in writing this pairing right now, so I’m planning on remaining anon until about the third or fourth chapter, if not until the very last one; I’m planning on there being five chapters, at the very least, but that’s subject to change.
> 
> Titles are from Panic! At The Disco’s "Don’t Threaten Me With a Good Time", which I was listening to when I decided to take a stab at these two.

Seth is in the middle of berating himself ( _you’re such an idiot, what are you thinking, you’re so **fucked up**_ ) when a big hand presses against his throat.

“What’ve I said about paying attention, sweetheart?” The endearment is mocking, not at all the way Dean always said it (rough and low and _warm_ , like he’d never said anything he’d meant more than that word; Seth closes his eyes at the flash of pain, of regret, of _hurt_ that comes with memories of Dean right now). There’s a musical lilt to the syllables, the Scottish accent more prominent than normal, and Seth hates the way it makes his skin tingle, goosebumps erupting on his arms and the hair on his nape rising. There’s a firm squeeze from the hand on his neck and Seth’s lips part at the anticipation ( _stupid, stupid, stupid_ ), but there’s no tightening of fingers, no shortage of air, and Seth feels disgusting when he realizes that he’s _disappointed_. “Rollins.” The Scot is annoyed now; there’s a flare of satisfaction at that knowledge.

“If you’re more interested in talking, McIntyre,” Seth finally replies, eyes still shut, “there are plenty of other guys I can go to who can actually give me what I want.” It’s a bluff, really; sex is sex is sex, but what Seth wants, what he _needs_ , right now is too much to ask from anyone else. He hadn’t even meant to end up here, with _Drew McIntyre_ of all people, but his feet had carried him down the hall from his own room, away from the empty bed he now has to face when he goes to sleep, and even when he had knocked on the door and seen the taller man in the open doorway afterward-

Seth has never been known for his good decision-making, not when it comes to his own well-being.

McIntyre is staring at him, head tilted just so, an amused smirk playing at the corners of his mouth now. “I don’t doubt the rest of the roster would be willing to put you up for the night.” It’s said with a leer, eyes drifting down Seth’s exposed chest. (He doesn’t remember losing his shirt.) Drew continues, voice low and gravelly, “I do doubt, however, that any of them would be able to do what you obviously need.” The hand around Seth’s throat squeezes tight for a split second, throwing Seth’s gut into a hard lurch. “But-“ The hand retracts, Drew pulling it to his side as he draws himself up on his knees between Seth’s thighs, somehow even taller and more imposing this way than when he’s standing tall above Seth in the middle of the ring, the warmth of his body seeping through to Seth’s inner thighs even through the thick, cotton sweatpants Seth is still wearing. “-if you believe that one of the nameless mass of this pathetic roster is the better choice, then you’re welcome to leave and crawl into their bed instead.” He gestures broadly at the door, smirk smug, amused.

A surge of fury, white-hot, unfurls in Seth’s chest; there’s nothing but pure and unbridled anger - at Drew’s attitude, at McIntyre himself, at the _deliberate_ selection of words (as though, if Seth chooses to stay, that makes him _the better choice_ ). He’s about to swing, his right hand already knotted in a tight fist, but McIntyre’s left hand goes to his wrist, fingers wrapping tight, so much tighter than the grip on Seth’s throat had been, and Seth shudders even as he glares at the man above him.

“I gave you an easy way out, Seth; I’d take it, if I were you.” That dark gaze is intent now, serious, as Drew stares down at Seth, studying him, daring him - to take the out or to stay?

(Seth has never been good at making the best decisions for himself.)

He snarls, “Fuck you,” but doesn’t attempt to wrench away or otherwise move at all. Drew’s dimples appear briefly as he grins.

“With pleasure.”

*

Waking up next to someone isn’t a new thing for Seth; waking up next to someone so much _bigger_ is sort of... off-putting, especially when he processes, remembers exactly _who_ he got into bed with the night before.

McIntyre is sleeping soundly on his stomach, breaths deep and even, naked back strong and smooth, moving in time with his breathing. Seth’s own breaths are a little panicked, short and choppy, and he struggles to calm them before it alerts his bedmate and wakes him; it takes a couple minutes or so, but he manages, then slowly sits up.

Everything twinges - every limb, every muscle, every part of him - and he can’t deny that it’s mostly in a good way (but he’ll try). As quietly and as smoothly as he can, Seth slips off the edge of the bed and bends to snag his sweatpants from the night before (there’s an ache, a deep ache, and Seth has to gasp and lets out a soft whimper that, thankfully, does not disturb the Scotsman), and he makes his way carefully to the bathroom, shutting the door behind him and locking it for good measure.

He swallows the lump in his throat - and, god, his neck is sore, so sore, and Seth immediately turns to the floor-length mirror on the back of the door, fingers going to his collarbone.

There are no bruises, but the soreness is reminder enough of the previous night (Drew, behind him, the bend of his arm tight around Seth’s neck in a mock-sleeper-hold, teeth tugging at his earlobe, accent thick and voice low as he tells Seth that this is what he was made for, that he belongs under someone at all times). Seth does a quick survey of the rest of his body, as much as he can, and finds that there are no bruises above his hips, where fingertip blotches have blossomed (Drew had pinned him, held him down on his belly, fucked him hard and without mercy, fingers digging unforgivingly into his hipbones), except at his right wrist where Drew had grabbed, easily hidden by his wrist wraps or long sleeves, and (distantly) he feels grateful for it.

Turning the tap on at the sink, Seth leans down and splashes his face with cold water, breathing out a little shakily.

_Stupid. So **fucking** stupid._

His thighs burn when he lifts his feet to don his sweatpants. (Drew had pushed them back, folded Seth in half and fucked him that way, shoving into him hard and fast and rough before abruptly pulling out and bullying Seth onto his stomach.) Unlocking and opening the bathroom door, Seth is more than a little relieved to see that McIntyre has not stirred. (He ignores the voice in his head calling him a coward; it sounds far too familiar and sends a pang through his heart.) He finds his shirt hanging from the doorknob and yanks it over his head, shoving one arm through while opening the door with the opposite hand, then quickly (he’s not running, just moving at a swift pace) makes his way back to his room without a backward glance. 

_Never again,_ Seth tells himself, taking an unsteady breath. _Never again._


	2. i've told you time and time again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _(He just wants to forget again. He wants to feel _good_ \- and there’s no denying, even to himself, that McIntyre had managed to make him forget the empty bed waiting in his own room, had made Seth nearly black out with pleasure in the end.)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't expecting such a response from a section of the fandom I assumed was much smaller than it is, but I'm so grateful all of you seemed to like the slow start. The rating's gone from 'mature' to 'explicit', but I won't guarantee that the explicitness is in any way decent lmao. You guys are amazing and when I de-anon, I'll respond to all of your comments with my actual account, but until then, thank you so much for the support and welcome!
> 
> Once again, the chapter title is from "Don't Threaten Me With a Good Time" by Panic!.

Here’s the thing: Seth is a goddamn liar (to himself, at least; he’s made it a point over the last two years to do his best, to stay honest with the people around him, a point of his desire to redeem himself to- well, _himself_ ).

So, yeah - a liar, that’s what he is because not even a week later (five days, the splotches on his hips still clearly visible, dotting his skin and forcing him to remember the way it had felt when they’d been put there, the way he’d just _taken it_ , even _pleaded for more_ ) he finds himself making his way toward the locker room he knows McIntyre has claimed for himself. Seth’s telling himself that he’s tracking the man down because the bastard had interfered in Seth’s match against Ziggler earlier in the night, had forced another loss onto Seth’s record, and Seth is _angry_ about it - he _is_ \- but part of him (the part that can’t lie to even himself) knows that he’s making excuses, that he just-

(He just wants to forget again. He wants to feel _good_ \- and there’s no denying, even to himself, that McIntyre had managed to make him forget the empty bed waiting in his own room, had made Seth nearly black out with pleasure in the end.)

“I’m feeling the slightest sense of _déjà vu_ here.” McIntyre is smirking at Seth, leaning against the doorjamb, amusement filling his gaze when Seth realizes his fist is still in the air (when did he knock?) and lowers it. The taller man surveys Seth, a slow once-over, lingering on certain spots, making Seth’s skin tingle in response.

“Are you just gonna stare or are you gonna let me in, asshole?” There’s a flash of irritation, of anger, before the Scot offers a sarcastic half-bow and steps aside, holding the door for Seth and shutting it firmly once he’s inside, the sound of a lock clicking into place almost ominous in the silence.

McIntyre turns and steps toward him, the burning heat of his body sliding over Seth’s. “Well?” asks Drew, lifting one eyebrow, his left hand rising, his fingers hooking loosely into the waist of Seth’s pants (even that minimal contact of skin-on-skin evokes a shiver from Seth and he _hates_ his body in this moment, hates that it won’t let him pretend he isn’t affected by the touch). Drew doesn’t pull him close or push him back, merely begins sliding his index finger side-to-side, rubbing over the bone of Seth’s hip (right over where the bruises he’d left only nights ago still remain).

“Well, what?” Seth tries to sound confident, like he has some sort of upper hand here, but it comes out in a rasp, so he clears his throat and tries again. “Well, what?” Okay - better, but not by much.

McIntyre barks out a laugh, the sound echoing in the empty locker room. “That’s how we’re going to play it again?” he chuckles, tossing his head, wet hair flying back behind his shoulder. (Seth only now notices that the taller man is clad only in a towel, one that is barely clinging to his hips because it’s only being held up by McIntyre’s free hand, his loose grip threatening to allow the fabric to drop at any moment, and his chest hair still has droplets of water dripping and sliding down the coarse strands; he must have just showered.) “We’re going to pretend that you didn’t come here for the same sort of fucking you got last time?”

Face burning, Seth steps back - and McIntyre lets his fingers slip from Seth’s waistband instead of forcing him to remain close. (Seth knows it’s because the man wants to prove that Seth will _choose_ to return, _choose_ to let Drew touch him again, and Seth finds himself wanting to _scream_ at the knowledge that he absolutely _will_.) “I came here to tell you to stop screwing with my matches, asshole.” It sounds plausible enough to Seth - it _is_ partly true, the reason he’d told himself he was seeking the Scot out in the first place, so he’s not lying (not really, not this time).

McIntyre’s crooked grin tells Seth that he doesn’t believe him, just as much as his words do. “If that’s what you need to tell yourself, sweetheart.” (There’s the word again, the mocking tone, and it seems fitting that his memories of another person saying that same word, in such a different way that used to make Seth’s insides flip so pleasantly - it’s fitting that they’re going to be replaced by this man’s voice saying it instead, considering that, even if only in a peripheral sort of way because Seth knows that _he’s_ the only one fully to blame for it, he’d also been responsible for shoving Dean out of Seth’s life.) Drew’s hand, the one gripping the towel, flexes as he shrugs, and Seth doesn’t like the way his mouth goes a little dry, the way his heart seems to stutter in disappointment when the towel remains where it is. “Well, now that you’ve said what you came to say,” Drew says, eyes dancing, “I’ve to get dressed.” He doesn’t move, doesn’t even reach out to Seth, but he still somehow seems to get closer as he continues, “The only question is whether you’re going to stay while I do.”

Seth is unaware he’s moved forward until his body is against Drew’s, Drew’s free hand on his waist and the other- the other drops the towel and Seth can’t help but to tilt his hips upward _just so_ to feel the hardening length against his own through his ring pants. Drew makes a sound, a _growl_ almost, and his hand goes up to knot in Seth’s hair, tugging his head back forcefully enough to pull a gasp from the younger man that he takes full advantage of, leaning down to give a sharp nip to Seth’s bottom lip before he joins their lips together, teeth clacking and noses nudging awkwardly until Seth tips up on his toes to even out the angle. They didn’t kiss much, maybe twice, the first night, Seth remembers, and it’s- it’s an _experience_ , he’s annoyed to realize, one that he wouldn’t mind continuing - but McIntyre draws back, releases him entirely, leaving Seth panting and disappointed and almost fully hard against his thin pants, erection held uncomfortably down to his thigh with the compression shorts he always wears.

“Get them off,” commands Drew, sounding only barely out of breath. (Bastard.) The hand that was on Seth’s waist is now loosely gripping his cock, stroking slowly as dark eyes remain locked on Seth.

Seth’s first thought is to fight the order, but- He grits his teeth and blindly undoes the flimsy belt, bending at the waist to untie the protective knee and shin pads and get his shoes and socks off, tossing all of them to the side before straightening and hooking his thumbs into the waistband of both his pants and shorts, peeling them down and off with the practiced movements of familiarity before he looks up at Drew again, feeling all-too-exposed even as Drew stands as bare as he is.

The eyebrow lifts again as Drew leans back against the lockers behind him, fingers still wrapped in a slack grip around his dick while the other hand lifts and two fingers twitch in a come-hither motion.

Seth feels the irritation rise to a new level and he grinds his teeth, but steps toward McIntyre, glaring. “What?”

A hand closes around Seth’s wrist (the same one with Drew’s bruises, still hidden by his wrist wraps, Seth notes vaguely) and slams him around, Seth’s back hitting the hard locker doors where Drew had just been leaning and Seth swears at him, shoving at the taller man’s shoulder with his free hand. “You could've just fuckin’ _asked_ me to move.”

“What fun would that be for me?”

Drew presses fully against him, shoving one large and naked thigh in between both of Seth’s before releasing Seth’s wrist and trailing both of his own hands down to tap the sides of Seth’s thighs before moving to wrap them around the backs. “Up,” Drew says firmly and Seth grips his shoulders tightly as the Scot lifts him like it’s nothing, like Seth is a child, urging Seth to wrap his legs tighter when he releases them and reaches for something at the top of the lockers, essentially pinning Seth there with only his hips, which is-

“Are you kidding me?” McIntyre is smirking, popping open the small bottle he’d removed, a wrapped condom held with it. “Are you fuckin’ serious right-”

“I was right, wasn’t I?” The accent is thick, the smugness overbearing. “I knew you wouldn’t hold out long; if it makes you feel better, dearest, I’ve made sure to have them out and ready every night. You aren't _entirely_ predictable.” It’s astounding how sarcastic an endearment can sound coming from the other man. Seth opens his mouth to fire back, but McIntyre leans in, pinning Seth completely, trapping Seth’s cock between their bellies as he takes Seth’s lips in a rough kiss. He hears the sound of the bottle hitting the floor and rolling away just before one large hand cups his ass, lifting him up, giving him some much-desired friction to his erection as their bodies shift to accommodate the movement, and then there’s a slick finger pressing into him, the pressure gentle in spite of the harsh treatment his mouth is currently being treated to.

A lot of the first night with McIntyre is a blur, emotional turmoil and anger turning inward and confusion and need taking their places at the forefront of Seth’s problems, and it seems like some of this night will be the same because there’s two and three and then suddenly no fingers inside of him while Drew manages to open the condom and roll it on without putting him down, supporting him with one big hand and Seth’s death grip on his shoulders and then-

Drew’s pushing inside him and Seth shudders, a full-body shake, spine lighting up as the thick head slowly forces its way into him, then continuing for what feels like the next five minutes, the rest of the sizable length sliding in to the hilt, Drew’s fingers digging into the globes of his ass, Drew’s hot breath rushing over his mouth as their foreheads touch, tips of their noses nudging together and it feels-

It feels _intimate_ and Seth starts to panic, starts to breathe too fast and he’s ready to call everything off, but then Drew’s forearm is against his throat. “There you go, not paying attention again,” he says and puts pressure on Seth’s windpipe, cutting off his air, and Seth feels himself relax (it’s so fucked up, so _wrong_ that he can allow himself to do this, that he isn’t concerned about McIntyre taking advantage of the position he has Seth in). Drew’s arm prevents him from opening his mouth, but he manages a soft glare. “Hold tight,” is all Drew tells him before the arm is gone, leaving Seth gasping, and he’s holding Seth’s ass cheeks again, spreading them even further apart and drawing his hips back, cock dragging slowly against Seth’s inner walls until he’s nearly completely out, and then he’s fucking back in, forceful and fast, hips slapping loudly against Seth’s, shoving Seth’s back roughly up and down the locker doors with every thrust.

Seth can’t catch his breath, can’t do anything but whine and moan and whimper and try to roll his hips against Drew’s. His cock is being stimulated by Drew’s flexing abs, by the sparse hair there, but he _needs_ something more, so he manages to release one strong shoulder to reach for himself, but-

Drew’s supporting him with one hand again, hips still working and his other hand wrenching Seth’s away and returning it to his shoulder before he presses his forearm back to Seth’s throat and Seth can’t _breathe_ , can’t do anything but _take what Drew is giving him once again_ and his vision is greying at the edges, lights dancing in patterns that shouldn’t be possible, and then he’s tensing and he’s coming, warmth spurting sporadically between their chests and bellies, and Drew’s letting out a guttural moan, hips slamming against Seth for a handful more thrusts before he finally stills and the arm lifts from Seth’s throat and he frantically takes in as much air as he can.

Drew remains standing for a few seconds, face buried in the curve of Seth’s neck now, hands supporting Seth once more, before he picks his head up and keeps Seth up as he shifts his hips so his softening cock slips out of Seth’s well-used entrance, helping Seth to steady himself on his own two feet before he turns away to deal with the condom while Seth struggles to keep his eyes open and get enough air for a full breath. He finally gives in and closes his eyes, just for a second, sliding down to sit on the cold floor, and the next moment, his pants have landed in his lap and when he looks up, Drew is dressed in sweats and a t-shirt and has his coat and boots on and he’s staring at Seth like he’s trying to figure something out, like he’s going to say something profound or important, but all he says is, “They’ll be coming around to clean for the night shortly,” and then he’s unlocking the door and out of sight and Seth is alone, like he always is now, and he ignores the sudden stab he feels in his chest as he rises unsteadily to his feet and gathers his gear.

_Stupid._


	3. and most things in between

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Blue eyes sear into Seth, a wrenching sort of pain in his gut making him stop breathing for one second, two, three-_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went back-and-forth for _days_ , trying to decide when or if I would de-anon ~~because anxiety~~ , but I'm happy with my decision to step out of the shadows.
> 
> If you don't know me: I have the same url as my username on the tumblr dot com.
> 
> If you do know me: 'Tis me. 'Twas me, all along. Surprise.
> 
> Thank you guys for your love of this fic and all your sweet words!
> 
> Again, the chapter title is from "Don't Threaten Me With a Good Time" by Panic!.

It becomes a sort of routine after that, as much as Seth tries to prevent it; he finds himself in McIntyre’s bed more nights of the week than not (he doesn’t stay, hasn’t since that first hazy night; a few hours and then Seth is walking shakily back to his own room, mind clear but for exhaustion and orgasmic content, able to pass out as soon as his head hits the pillow, no lingering upset that he’s alone - still so alone - in a bed that used to be filled with movement and laughter and a deep voice murmuring _go to sleep, Seth_ as blue eyes closed) and he’s managing to hate himself a little less each time.

(Drew, for his part, never comes to Seth, never seeks him out for a way to quiet nagging thoughts or to fill a void of empty space, and Seth doesn’t hate himself for it as much anymore, but he feels pathetic when he thinks about it for too long, about how weak it makes him feel that he’s the only one who actively needs this.)

*

Champagne isn’t Seth’s drink (he rarely drinks at all, but this stuff makes his stomach roll), but he’s holding the delicate stem of a champagne flute filled with it for something to do with his hands as he stands awkwardly at the edge of the room, watching his fellow superstars drink and eat and enjoy themselves, everyone in their own little group. (He’s alone. He’s always alone.)

Everyone is dressed up, formal and beautiful, and Seth hates the way his tie fits around his neck, too tight and not tight enough, at the same time (and he tries not to think of the way McIntyre’s hand had felt in that same position just three nights before, not squeezing, just pressing him down into the mattress, the fingers of his other hand wrapped tight around the base of Seth’s weeping cock, smirk on his lips as Seth whines desperately at him, the abrupt denial of his release sending him into a near-frantic state until Drew decides he’s good and ready and lets Seth fuck up into his fist and the smirk grows wider when Seth half- _screams_ as he finally- well, he tries not to think about that just now). He sees Steph making her rounds with Hunter, both offering their usual smiles (and it took him so long, _so long_ , to recognize them as intelligent predators’ smiles, smug and careful and eager as they manipulate their prey into the position that best suits their needs before taking their victim down in one fell swoop); Hunter glances at him as they pass and Seth feels that familiar surge of anger even as Hunter leads Stephanie away from Seth’s corner of the room with a hand at the small of her back.

He’s ready to call it a night, ready to get out of this stuffy room with people he doesn’t even speak to (he sees Finn and Bayley and Sasha on the opposite side of the room, but sometimes they’re- well, they’re a little too much for him); he wouldn’t have even come tonight, would have chosen to stay in his quiet hotel room if it wasn’t an unspoken fact that attendance is mandatory for the usual McMahon-Helmsley Christmas Party, for photo-ops if nothing else. Seth is ready to leave, make his way out of this maze of an arena and down to the street and an Uber to take him to his hotel, when he catches sight of Dean.

Blue eyes sear into Seth, a wrenching sort of pain in his gut making him stop breathing for one second, two, three-

-and then Dean’s lip is curling and there’s so much anger and disgust in his face and Seth still can’t breathe, needs to get out of this room, away from the physical reminder that he is _useless, selfish, **alone**_ (and he’s always known, he’s always known those things, but he’s always worked so _hard_ to make himself better, had thought he’d finally, _finally_ , done something right when Dean had given him another chance, was so happy that he and Dean had gotten back what they’d lost because of Seth’s greed - and then it had all been shattered and taken away and Seth still doesn’t know _why_ except that it must be because of _him_ ). His gut is churning and he feels physically ill, needs to leave and so he does, blindly setting the champagne flute down on a table as he goes ( _running away, like a coward_ , that voice that sounds like Dean pipes up from the very back of his mind), and he doesn’t know which way he’s heading, whether he’s even going in the right direction, but he can finally _breathe_ again.

His chest is still a little tight when he finally stops and puts his back to the wall, closing his eyes and sliding down it, suit jacket bunching up a bit between his shoulder blades. He loosens his skinny tie ( _there’s only one use for these things_ he remembers Dean saying playfully once, dimple showing, fingers _tap-tap-tapping_ on the crimson fabric Seth had chosen for the night before Dean snagged the tie, wrapped it around his fist, and pulled a laughing Seth in for a kiss) and balls it up, shoves it into the pocket of his jacket and pulls his knees up, pressing his forehead to them, eyes closed - takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly, repeats, over and over and over.

He doesn’t know how long he’s there (five minutes? An hour?) before he hears heavy footsteps walking toward him and a deep, accented voice say, amusement clear, “Being dramatic again, sweetheart?” and Seth’s head flies up in a sudden fury, eyes narrowed and burning.

“Don’t call me that.” It sounds childish, it does, but Seth doesn’t care, as long as he never has to hear someone call him _sweetheart_ ever again.

Drew’s eyebrow quirks and his eyes are intent on Seth’s. “Feisty tonight, are we?”

Seth scowls and rights himself, getting to his feet and glaring. “I’m not in the mood for this, asshole.” His voice sounds a little shaky, a little broken, and he moves to shove at McIntyre’s chest, but his wrists get caught by McIntyre’s strong grip.

“I don’t tolerate being shoved around by _anyone_ , Seth.” In sharp contrast to Seth, Drew’s voice is firm, hardened and fierce, and his eyes have something in them that Seth cannot identify through the fog of distress that he still can’t shake even now that he’s away from Dean. “Think very carefully about what you do next.”

It’s a challenge and a warning, and Seth isn’t sure which way he takes it because the next moment - he’s in Drew’s space, on his toes and in Drew’s face, and his wrists are still held in Drew’s hands, but the fingers loosen just slightly when Seth’s lips crash against his, grip shifting to a softer hold, thumbs smoothing almost gently over Seth’s pulse points and Seth doesn’t _want_ gentle right now. He doesn’t know what he wants, but it isn’t _this_.

Seth pulls back, breathing heavily, eyes squeezing shut for half a moment before they’re back on McIntyre. Drew remains still, his bottom lip sporting a small cut from Seth’s teeth as they collided with each other, simply waiting. Finally, Seth makes his decision and presses his hands against Drew’s chest, firm enough to be insistent and careful enough not to make it seen as an attack, until Drew’s back is against a door Seth hadn’t noticed in his haze and McIntyre releases one of Seth’s wrists in favor of reaching back and down to turn the doorknob at his hip, slipping in and using the hold on Seth’s other wrist to tug him in after.

The door has barely clicked shut, the lock turned, and Seth barely gets a flash of what looks like an office before he’s on his knees, McIntyre’s back to the door again. Drew is looking down at him and Seth feels simultaneously weak and powerful (the anger and the hurt and the pain are all still there, but they’re quieted by this, by _Drew_ ). He can’t stop the way he shudders when he leans in and presses his nose to Drew’s dick over the zipper of his dress pants, can’t stop the sharp inhale when he feels Drew’s fingers removing the hair tie he put in earlier, dropping the low bun he’d styled and running his hand over Seth’s head, almost petting him, and Seth _does not want this_. Without preamble, he reaches up and pulls the zipper down, gets his hand in and takes Drew’s cock out; it’s not completely hard yet, but it’s not soft, either, and Seth marvels for a moment, mouth watering, before he moves in to kitten-lick just below the head. Drew’s own breath stutters and his hand presses a little firmer to Seth’s hair, but he doesn’t force Seth to move, to take him in, and Seth-

Seth opens his mouth, saliva pooled on his tongue, and allows some of it to trail out, using his hand to spread it along Drew’s cock before he’s letting the head pass his lips, suckling firmly, stroking what isn’t in his mouth. Slowly, he moves further down, jaw wide, taking his hand away and then Drew is fully hard and nudging the back of his throat, stopping Seth’s air supply before he pulls back and looks, eyes glazed, up at the Scotsman, the tip sitting on the very end of Seth’s tongue, his mouth still open - an offering.

Drew doesn’t move, doesn’t do anything, until Seth’s hands grasp Drew’s, getting him to slide his fingers into Seth’s hair, cup Seth’s head and _take_.

Drew’s grip is so tight, Seth’s scalp is hurting, and his hips are moving so quickly, cock shoving so hard into Seth’s throat, his eyes are watering and he can’t _breathe_ again, but this- this is a sort of pain he is familiar with, the kind he can handle (the kind that doesn’t make him feel like his heart has shattered into a thousand tiny shards and fallen into the pit of his stomach).

There’s thick trails of saliva oozing from the corners of Seth’s mouth, sliding through his beard, down his neck, into the collar of his button-up. Drew’s hands tighten a little more every few thrusts and he holds Seth down, shoves his cock into Seth’s throat, forces an involuntary gag, Seth’s entire body jerking against the hold, but Drew doesn’t relent and Seth’s hands never move to push him away.

His jaw is getting tired and his head and his throat are hurting, his knee is twinging from resting on the hard floor for so long and he can’t breathe and he isn’t sure when he closed his eyes, but his mind is clear and the only voice he hears is Drew’s, murmuring words Seth can’t make out though the slick sounds of Drew sliding in and out of his mouth and his own struggling breaths and the muffled buzzing noise in his ears.

Drew’s hips are stuttering, his fingers tight in Seth’s hair, and he makes a sudden move as if to pull away, but Seth _whines_ , brow furrowing; he thinks he hears a chuckle above the buzzing, but his eyes are still closed, so he can’t check to see. There’s a strangled sort of noise above him and he’s sure a few of his hairs rip out of his scalp when Drew balls his fists and presses halfway into Seth’s mouth and his cock pulses on Seth’s tongue and Seth swallows reflexively, breathing through his nose when it’s over, and then Drew pulls away, releasing his hair and he feels the back of a large hand brush against his face as Drew tucks himself away.

Seth still has his eyes closed, but he opens them when he feels Drew’s hand back on the top of his head before it slides down to cup Seth’s sore and wet jaw, thumbing the corner of his red mouth. There’s a look on Drew’s face, in his eyes, sort of soft and fond and Seth doesn’t know what to do with this - but then Drew is helping him up, gripping his elbow, humming when Seth inhales a little too sharply as he stretches his leg. He turns them, presses Seth into the door now and reaches down to Seth’s clothed erection (when did he get hard?) and covers it with one large palm and murmurs, “Go ahead, love,” and Seth should feel humiliated at the way his chest expands and the way he immediately obeys, rolling his hips against Drew’s hand, little grunts and whimpers escaping his abused throat until he comes, whining, his face pressed into Drew’s chest, wetness seeping into his briefs and pants as Drew’s palm finally withdraws.

Strong hands cup Seth’s hips, just holding them, resting there, and Seth feels- he thinks he feels McIntyre press a kiss into the part of his hair, but then Drew pulls back, hands still on Seth’s hips as he looks at Seth’s flushed face and says, “We’d better get out of here. This little party-” Seth can practically _hear_ the quotation marks around the word. “-is about to end, and I think Corbin will be wanting into his office when it’s all over.”

Startled, Seth blinks and looks around the room they’re in, taking in the comfortable-looking sofa, the pretentiously set-up desk, one of the stupid vests Corbin likes to prance around in over the armrest of the chair behind it - this _is_ his office. The realization is enough to punch a breath of laughter from him and the look that gets from Drew is-

Seth doesn’t know what to do with it, so he sidesteps a little, gets against the wall next to the door, wincing at both the soft twinge remaining in his knee and the pull of damp fabric rubbing over his sensitive skin, and Drew’s eyebrow goes up again, the corner of his mouth crooked in a half-smile before he turns the lock and opens the door, slipping out into the hallway before Seth, heading back the way he’d come, leaving Seth to call his Uber and try to escape the building without running into anyone else.

(He manages, and he has the fleeting thought of going to McIntyre’s room when he wakes in the middle of the night - alone, memory flashes of smiling light-blue eyes teasing him about his tie merging into his dreams of a furious ocean, trying to drag him under the current as he fights to break free - but he shuts his eyes tightly and shakes the suggestion from his mind.)


	4. i'm not as think as you drunk i am

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _His belt is gone._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~This took so many re-writes, I felt like screaming.~~
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> This was always going to be the title of this chapter. Always.
> 
> I'm a broken record, but the chapter title is from "Don't Threaten Me With A Good Time" by Panic!.

His belt is gone.

The Intercontinental Championship, the title Seth has worked so hard to keep - the title Dean had helped Seth celebrate winning, the night of SummerSlam - is _gone_ , around Dean’s waist now, and Seth is-

Seth is in McIntyre’s bed, catching his breath, eyes closed to halt the threat of the tears he can feel burning at the backs of his eyelids, all the emotions he’s felt since the end of the match (Dean standing above him, belt in hand, a sneer of triumph on his face before it changes briefly, then closes off completely as Dean walks away from a beaten-down Seth, once again) finally forcing their way to the surface, refusing to leave, and it’s not supposed to be like this; it’s _not_. Everything normally goes away - disappears, for a few blessed hours after he leaves McIntyre and he doesn’t understand why it’s different this time.

(He’s back to lying to himself again because he _does_ know, knows that it has everything to do with the look he’d seen cross Dean’s face before he’d left Seth to lick his own wounds - a split-second change that had shown, so much more than words ever could, that Seth is _nothing_ to him now, _less_ than nothing, and it’s so _stupid_ because Dean had been lost to him before tonight, Seth _knows_ it, but that look, the cool indifference as he’d turned away, had driven it home to Seth that Dean, _his_ Dean, is gone. Seth is nothing to this Dean and that hurts more than the disgust or the horrible words or the beatings over the last few months ever had.)

(There’s a new feeling, too, deep in the pit of his belly, that feels like- like _relief_ , like he’s glad for it to be over now, for Dean to have gotten whatever sort of victory or validation that he has been searching for these last months. It feels foreign to Seth, the little bit of happiness he gains from that, mixed with the sadness of it all, and he thinks that maybe it means he can finally move on, the way that Dean obviously has now, eventually, when all the upset wanes, but for now-)

There’s a sudden silence, the steady flow of water from a sink tap shutting off, and when Seth opens his eyes, tears banished, Drew is leaning against the bathroom’s door jamb, his own eyes (such a unique shade of blue; one that, even if Seth were ever so inclined to attempt, he could not find the words to describe) staring directly at Seth, a little soft, a little something Seth can’t place right now. Before Drew can say anything, Seth sits up on the edge of the bed, fingers combing through his fluffed hair, attempting (and failing) to tame it; he eventually gives up, pulling it back into a low bun, and bends down to snatch his briefs and shorts from the floor. He can feel McIntyre’s gaze still on him and does his best to ignore it until-

“Leaving so soon, Seth?” It sounds teasing, light - but there’s an undertone of something that pulls at Seth, makes his insides twist.

Seth doesn’t respond for a few moments, busying himself with pulling on his clothes and searching out his shirt, donning it quickly, slipping his socks on and sliding his feet into his sneakers. “It’s late. Early. Whatever.” It’s barely after midnight, not even four hours since he’d watched his belt raised by Dean, not even two hours since he’d followed Drew back here, hurting and in need of whatever form of comfort that sex could provide him (but it wasn’t enough tonight, not enough to push away the pain in his chest, and Seth just wants to leave, get away before it all escapes in a blur of pained words and humiliating tears, despite the needling voice in his ear saying _maybe it’s okay to stay_ ).

He feels Drew’s eyes on his back all the way to the door, the feeling remaining long after he’s in his own room, two floors down, back to the door as he slides to sit on the floor, eyes closed, chest tight.

*

He doesn’t go to McIntyre for the next several weeks (and, of course, Drew never comes to him), the lingering sense of shame at his near-breakdown keeping him to his own room, alone in his own head (alone, alone, alone).

It’s been a hard month, long and exhausting, both physically and mentally, Seth putting himself through match after match after match in an attempt to keep everything at bay (although... he thinks it’s become easier; these last nights, he’s been able to enjoy the adrenaline and the rush of a win again, like he’s coming back to the real Seth Rollins, leaving behind pieces of the shell he’s put himself in since Dean left him on the floor all those months ago), and Seth is ready for a break, both from the mental exhaustion and the lonely nights. Maybe that’s why he decides to say _yes_ when Bayley invites him out with her and Sasha and Finn (or maybe it’s simply because, while he’s ready to not be alone, he isn’t quite prepared to face McIntyre and the look in his too-soft gaze again).

*

Bayley is one of the most genuinely _happy_ people Seth knows - and sometimes it makes him tired, makes him need to get away from the perpetual smile and hugging, but tonight it is a comfort, the way she encourages him to join in a few games of pool at the bar Sasha has led them to, just down the street from their latest venue. Bayley is a _shark_ when it comes to this game, as it turns out, so after their third (consecutive) loss to the girls, Finn and Seth are sent to fetch more shots. Drinking still isn’t much Seth’s thing (he’s downed much less than any of the others, just on the cusp of _tipsy_ , mind clearer than it’s been in a very long time), but a little liquor every now and then can be therapeutic, he thinks (and as long as he’s having fun and he isn’t alone, it can’t really be considered ‘drinking away his sorrows’).

“Everythin’ alright?” Finn’s leaning next to Seth, arms crossed on the bar top, elbow touching Seth’s, the warmth of his skin seeping into the sleeve of Seth’s shirt.

Seth looks at him and nods, a slow smile spreading over his lips - quite possibly the realest one he’s given in months, truth be told. “Everything’s fine, man. I’m good,” he adds - and he finds that it’s true, too, the unhappiness and hurt that has been plaguing him over the last few weeks (the last few _months_ , really, he admits to himself) ebbing and making room for other things in the wake of, simply, a good time and a little liquor. He repeats, “I’m good,” and they both grin a little lopsidedly as they down their next shots.

*

It’s still decently early when they finally leave, not even two in the morning, and they decide to walk to the hotel, three blocks away. Bayley begs for a piggyback ride from Seth, but when he nearly tips them both over as she hops up, his depth perception skewed by the alcohol, Sasha lays down the law and declares that all feet must remain on the ground.

Finn and Seth are on the outside of their little huddled line, the girls between them, their arms hooked through each other’s and Sasha’s with Finn’s, Bayley’s with Seth’s. They’re all laughing, giggling much too loudly, but in the middle of Nashville, even at two in the morning, it doesn’t attract much attention. Seth is tripping over his own (and Bayley’s) feet every dozen steps, his vision blurred, his words slurring, his cheeks warm despite the cold breeze of Tennessee’s early spring temperatures.

(He can’t remember the last time he had this much fun, the last time he laughed so much in one night.)

*

Sasha, Finn, and Bayley get out on their floor, Bayley wrapping Seth in her signature Bayley Hug and thanking him for coming out with them as she steps back, voice just a little too loud in the silence, making Seth laugh as the elevator doors close. He stabs at the button for the fourteenth floor and leans in to rest his burning forehead against the cold metal of the panel, closes his eyes when the car (and his stomach) drops and rises again.

The warmth of the hotel’s lobby had hit Seth like a bus, a startling temperature difference from the outside, which had sobered Seth just slightly; now he is fighting the urge to fall asleep standing up, body warm and relaxed, mind still blissfully calm, and so when the lift stops and he raises his head, eyes opening, it takes him a few moments more than it should to take in the sight that greets him.

There’s a broad chest and even broader, too-familiar shoulders, covered by the black fabric of a tight T-shirt. As Seth’s gaze trails upward, he’s met by a strong jaw with well-groomed facial hair, even darker than his own; full lips, curled into a soft smirk, deep dimples beside them; finally, he meets Drew’s eyes (and, god, Seth must have been a poet in another life because his tipsy brain describes them as _the color of the sky after a storm, just as the sun is shining through the clouds_ , and Seth thinks that maybe his brain is trying to make this a metaphor for something, but he’s not entirely sober enough to puzzle it out just yet). The doors begin to close and Drew’s hand shoots out, stopping them and blocking Seth in the elevator car all at once.

Seth blurts out the first thing that comes to mind - after he checks (three times) that he is, indeed, on the fourteenth floor. “This is my floor.” There’s still a slur in some of his syllables.

One dark eyebrow shoots up, full lips still smirking. “You smell like a bottle of whiskey.”

There’s something he’s missing here, an important detail that he can’t bring to mind just yet, head still fuzzy with alcohol. (He probably shouldn’t have had those last few shots; he’d told himself he’d stop at five, but he’d ended at about eight - or was it ten? Sasha had kept handing them to him and he’d been more focused on trying to beat Bayley in their next game than really focusing on the number.) Bringing his hands to his face, Seth rubs at his eyes roughly, little bursts of light flashing. “I- I need to get to my room,” he says when he looks up, eyes cutting to Drew’s arm, blocking his way. (He feels a little curl of interest, has a flash of memory of that same arm curled around his neck from behind, cutting off his air, hot breath against his ear, a sweat-slick chest against his back, and he remembers that he’s been avoiding McIntyre since he lost his belt, that no one has touched him the way he needs in nearly a month; that he hasn’t gone to anyone else is a quiet thought in the back of his mind, another thing that his drinking brain seems to be trying to make him take note of, but he lets it drift away with the rest.)

Drew is still staring at him when Seth manages to drag his eyes back to blue ones. “Let’s go, then, love,” he tells Seth and steps back, arm returning to his side (and _okay_ , Seth thinks, his stomach swirling; he can get behind this).

Drew’s heavy footsteps are muffled by the carpeted hallway, but they’re as loud as canons to Seth, the feel of the taller man’s gaze sending chills up his spine. He doesn’t stumble the entire way, careful to keep his eyes on his feet, but he fumbles a little with his wallet, fingers clumsy, and misses the card slot twice before Drew reaches around and takes the room key from him to let them in (and Seth closes his eyes at the added heat of Drew’s body to his back, a little of the sleepy comfort from the elevator returning, but _not yet_ because he has a new plan for the night now).

The door shuts behind them, Drew’s palm on the small of Seth’s back urging him further into the room, toward the bed. Seth turns around, the backs of his knees touching the edge of the bed, and he moves to lean into Drew, but yelps instead when large hands push him back and he lands flat on his back on the mattress, legs over the side, with Drew standing above him. Seth’s stomach, flipping uneasily at the sudden movements, takes a few seconds to settle. “Rude,” mumbles Seth and pushes himself up to sit.

Drew only hums and- and _kneels in front of Seth_ , an arm’s length away, and this is different, new, and Seth’s heart picks up speed, his breath coming a little shorter, and he’s not hard, but he wants to be, so he moves one hand over the crotch of his sweatpants, leaving him precariously balanced on his other. A deep chuckle comes rumbling out of Drew, gaze on Seth - and there’s that _look_ again, soft and sort of gentle, the look that confuses Sober Seth so much and Tipsy Seth is-

Seth leans forward, lips colliding off-center with Drew’s, his front teeth catching the Scotsman’s bottom lip before Seth manages to right himself and his tongue licks across the small hurt, an apology, and he’s kissing Drew, but Drew isn’t kissing him back.

A hand comes up to his throat, wrapping gently around it, thumb caressing the side of Seth’s neck, and guides Seth back just enough that Seth can see his own reflection in Drew’s eyes until his palm slides down to Seth’s upper chest and presses lightly, forcing Seth to lie back on the bed once again; in the next moment, Seth feels his shoelaces being loosened, his shoes being tugged off. Drew is standing now, saying something about whiskey again, but Seth doesn’t hear it all, his heart pounding unsteadily in his ears, his breath is shaky and his eyes are shut tight and it’s _just like last time he was with McIntyre_ , Seth fighting back tears and Drew staring at him, only it isn’t _pain_ filling Seth this time.

It’s _rejection_.

He hears Drew moving back and forth for a bit, then the door opening and closing again, knows he’s alone (all alone; it always comes back to this), and he needs to get up, brush his teeth so his mouth isn’t disgusting in the morning, but all he wants to do is lie here.

(Seth falls asleep with hurt settled deep in his bones, his heart still pounding loudly in his ears, and tears stinging the backs of his eyelids.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had... a _lot_ of trouble with this one and idk why ~~jk it's because there was no porn~~. Come to my [meatshack](<a%20href=) and shout at me about Sethiel's angel eyes, Drewseph's glorious thighs, and how I always leave Seth in Angst Mode.


End file.
